


A Long Christ-Damned Time

by Pink_Siamese



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-13
Updated: 2008-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 00:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Siamese/pseuds/Pink_Siamese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was a gum-chewing bottle blonde with one tiny hip cocked out and her fist planted on it, pinning him to the seat with her blue eyes. She stood there like it took all of her weight to counterbalance the coffee pot dangling from her hand; she was petite and slim and had doll-like forearms smothered with freckles. Her plastic name tag said Hi, my name is DARLA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Christ-Damned Time

“Get you anything else, hon?”

She was a gum-chewing bottle blonde with one tiny hip cocked out and her fist planted on it, pinning him to the seat with her blue eyes. She stood there like it took all of her weight to counterbalance the coffee pot dangling from her hand; she was petite and slim and had doll-like forearms smothered with freckles. Her plastic name tag said _Hi, my name is DARLA_. Her breath reeked of stale spearmint.

“I don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

Conrad Ecklie glanced up. Her breasts strained the front of her tight rayon blouse. It was the color of a grease-stained sky and trimmed in white. The corner of her hot pink mouth tucked into a tiny smile. The overhead lights buzzed, casting a pallor across her face. Her jaw worked the gum.

“Yeah,” he said.

“You don’t want to talk or nothin?”

“This is a diner, sweetheart. I want conversation and I’ll go to a bar.”

“You know, cause you look like you got talkin on your mind,” she said. “It’s dead in here anyhow. I can spare a minute.” Her grin widened. “Just say the word.”

The haze of his day weighted him down. The shitty coffee was the dividing line between scraping himself off this booth and falling asleep sitting up, his head cocked back on the seat. Like a Mexican taking a siesta. A white-skinned Mexican in a rumpled gray suit with a receding hairline. Minus the sombrero, of course.

“More coffee,” he mumbled.

Darla popped her gum and slopped coffee into his cup. “Y’all change your mind…”

She strode away and Ecklie admired the wiggle in her walk. A woman’s voice wailed from the jukebox, some country twang lamenting her lost love. The lyrics pieced together a story that wore snakeskin cowboy boots, picked cactus spines out of its ass, and drifted to oblivion on a flood of beer and cheap tequila. He thought of his mom, who had cried for weeks when Patsy Cline died. How she’d propped up a photo of the chanteuse on top of a nightstand and lit tiny white candles. How she’d dressed the altar with wildflowers picked from the side of the road and gotten on her knees in her housecoat, hair dangling from rollers she fixed up the night before, and murmured the rosary. _I’ve got to pray for that girl’s soul_, she’d say. _Her poor lost soul_.

“You know,” the waitress said, sliding into the booth across from him, “this pretendin we don’t know each other is pure-d stupid. What you doin here, anyway?”

“Getting a cup of coffee.”

“Conrad.” She plucked a napkin out of the dispenser on the table and spat her gum into it. She shook a cigarette out of a crumpled pack. “This is Vegas.” She balanced the cig between her fingers. “There are a hundred places to pick up a cup of coffee.”

“So I picked the wrong fucking hole in the wall. Is that a crime?”

“Don’t you talk to me with that mouth.”

“Truce,” he mumbled.

She put the cigarette in her mouth. “So how you been?”

“All right,” he said.

“Just all right?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She plucked the cigarette out of her mouth and held it between her fingers again, the tip pointed toward the ceiling. Ecklie measured it with his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, this?” She glanced at it. “I’m pretendin to smoke. See I’m wantin to quit and all, but holding them is just too hard to give up. You know, goin through the motions? Dr. Phil says it’s like a ritual. It helps. I got a patch on for the nicotine.”

“People don’t look at you funny?”

“Hells bells, who cares if they do?” Darla shrugged, tucking the cigarette into the ashtray. “It eases my mind. What other people think ain’t my problem.” She tipped her chin at his pate. “Thought much about shaving your head? That half-on, half-off look don’t suit you.”

“Now you’re shitting on my hair.”

Darla wagged a finger. “Cuss words are the language of the ignorant.”

“Don’t start that righteous crap.”

She played with her cigarette and giggled. “You was always so cute when gettin defiant.”

Ecklie sighed. “Oh Darla darlin, rose of San Antone. I thought you were going back home?”

She shrugged. “I was. Changed my mind.”

“Don’t want to leave all this behind?”

“Not in a million,” she said.

“This place is a shithole.”

“So why you still here, then?”

Ecklie sipped his coffee. He winced at the bitter taste. “It’s home, I guess.”

“So what’s that make you? Some sort of doodlebug? A man at home in the excrement of the universe?”

“Yeah. That’s me.” He cracked a smile. “Doodlebug extraordinaire.”

“Tell you what,” she said, stuffing the cigarette back into the pack. She shoved the pack into her apron. “I’ll buy you a drink. A real drink. Something with a little kick to it. You look like you need a drink.”

“Shouldn’t you be working?”

“Aw, screw ’em if they can’t take a joke. I’m off in a half hour anyway. This place’ll swim just fine without me.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s probably not good idea.”

“Hon, I’ve made me a career outta bad ideas.” She untied her apron. “There’s a juke joint across the way. You don’t even have to drive.”

“Fine.” He tossed up his hands. “The thought of my apartment depresses the hell out of me.”

Darla got up and clocked herself out. She stopped by the kitchen door and spoke with her replacement, a tall dark-haired woman with a face like a prune and a voice carved out of flint. The top buttons of her blouse were undone, offering a glimpse of leathery skin and neon purple lace. Former showgirl. The city was haunted by them.

When Darla returned to the dining room, she’d ditched her waitress outfit for a silky country western blouse and a pair of snug jeans. The blouse was lavender and light green and had pearl buttons and long swinging white fringe. Her cowgirl boots were simple brown leather and worn down at the heels. Ecklie watched her approach the table. It was a nice view.

“Are you sure you won’t get fired?”

“Don’t you worry about me.” Darla hauled the strap of her purse onto her shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s get outta here.”

They were in the parking lot when Darla fished out the cigarette and lit it. She held it down by her hip, face turning up and down the street. “I ain’t gonna smoke it,” she said. “It’ll give me something to gesture with. You know, that touch of realism.”

“You’re going to light a cigarette and not smoke it.” Ecklie waited for a break in the flow of cars. “Flirting with relapse?”

“Maybe.” Darla shrugged. “This thing with all the drunks at AA, they’re always carryin on about how you can’t go into a bar an you need to cut off from all your friends and never go in anywhere someone’s havin a drink. Remove the temptation and all that. Like if there’s no temptation you’ll just forget all about the taste and how nice it feels to have a drink. Well, I think that’s just dumb. You can’t avoid temptation all your life. You’d never set foot out the house. Imagine spending your whole life afraid of the wine the folks at the next table over are orderin, gettin the shakes ever time some guy pops the top on a cold one. That’s no kind of life. You ain’t kicked the habit until you can smell the whiskey without drinkin. If I can resist a lit-up cigarette, I’m darn-well cured of the addiction, don’t you think?”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” said Ecklie.

“It’s the only way of looking at it,” said Darla. “Cross.”

She stepped out into the road. Her heels clocked against the cement. She swung her hand, the ribbon of smoke trailing over her shoulder. Ecklie peered into her kittenish face. Never once did she lift the cigarette to her mouth. He knew he’d have been tempted by now; he suspected he would’ve given in. He would’ve taken up a life far removed from cigarettes. He would’ve deserted the smoking areas and avoided smoking buddies. He would be the one looking over the clerk’s shoulder at gas stations and sweating, fantasizing about the Marlboro Man, contemplating the price of a quick fling with Joe Camel. In the parking lot of the bar, she dropped the cigarette and snuffed it out beneath her heel.

“I feel your eyes on my ass,” she said.

“It’s an interesting method. The quitting, I mean. I’m not looking at your ass.” His face felt a trifle warm. “I was admiring your unorthodox methods.”

“Nothin unorthodox about this.” Darla cackled and smacked her fanny. “Gold old-fashioned rump roast. A bit fuller than it used to be, but everything still works out just fine, praise the Lord. I don’t mind. I’m feelin magnanimous tonight. You can look at my ass.”

“Fine as it ever was.” The smile felt foreign on his face. “I thought cussing was the language of the ignorant?”

“It is,” said Darla. “Ass ain’t a swear word. It means donkey. It’s even in the Bible. Go on and look it up sometime.”

“Those jeans look nice on your donkey.” He slipped ahead of her and held the door open.

Darla burst out laughing. She ducked under his arm. “I knew that sense of humor weren’t dead. Bleedin and limpin along, maybe. Man, this place is stuffed to the gills. You wanna order for me? The powder room is callin my name.”

“You always drank a margarita,” he said.

“No salt, poured over a big handful of diamonds. Just make sure they don’t use none of that cheap tequila.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ecklie shouldered up to the bar. It was long and pitted with age and stained with countless rings of condensation. The air was laced with smoke and throbbed with modern country music. Go-go dancers took up space at either end of the bar, all dressed up in spangled white; a pair of honky tonk angels. On closer inspection they looked young and bored, born and bred in the suburbs, gyrating to the music in mechanical motion. The bar was jammed with a motley spread of humanity: biker-types, slumming professionals, call girls. He fished a twenty out of his wallet and flagged the bartender with it.

“I’d like a Corona, no lime,” he said. “And a margarita on the rocks, no salt, Cointreau _and_ triple sec, Herradura.”

“No sweat, dude,” said the bartender.

Ecklie looked around. There were round tables and booths and all of them looked full.

“Hey, hon.” Darla appeared at his elbow. She stuffed a pair of tens into his belt. She held a fresh cigarette. “It’s on me, and don’t you pull none of that chivalrous crap about it either. I insist.”

The bartender brought the drinks. Ecklie fished the tens out of his waistband and stuffed them into a pocket. He passed Darla her margarita. She sniffed at it, then took a delicate sip. “Mmmm-mmmm, goddamn and hellfire. That’s good.”

“Let’s sit down.”

“Good luck with that, findin a place n all. I figure we’ll just stand up in a corner somewheres. It don’t take long to put away one drink.”

Ecklie took a swallow of beer. How long had it been since he’d had a beer? Or spent time in a juke joint, for that matter?

_A long Christ-damn time_.

A half hour in her presence and he was thinking in Darla-isms.

“Hey,” he said.

“What?”

“You ever miss being married?”

“To you?” She tossed her head back and laughed. The tiny gold cross around her neck gleamed in the hollow between her collarbones. “Oh hell no. I just ain’t the marryin kind.” She saluted him with her drink. “But you know that.”

“I guess I do,” he said.

“You know, I been on my damn feet all day,” she said. “Can the standing. I need to sit my ass down.”

“Find a table,” he said. “I’m all yours.”

“Conrad, are you flirtin with me?”

“No. Just feeling magnanimous.”

She giggled and tossed her blonde hair and slipped off through the crowd. He did his best to keep up with her. She was so petite that she disappeared and reappeared through the forest of limbs, wavering like a flame. She scouted out a ratty looking booth and slid into the seat. She sighed. He couldn’t hear the sound of it over the noise, but he saw it pass over her face, like sunshine fleeting across the sparkly surface of a lake.

He sat down and looked at her. The wrinkles around her eyes spread out in a gossamer net. Lines carved the familiar shape of her smile into her cheeks. Latent dimples. The fresh-faced girl he’d known had honey-colored hair with Sun-In streaks and white teeth and eyes the cool and haughty shade of the Atlantic ocean. Not the tame waters south of New York or the warm currents of Florida but more like waters of New England, those bitter cold tides off Cape Cod in winter. She’d been a corn-fed cutie, a former cheerleader with a body like denim-wrapped dynamite. That girl was gone. She had been erased in increments by a hard-living woman chipped and dented by a lifetime of waiting tables and smoking cigarettes and hunkering down in a beaten-up trailer in the middle of the desert. Her thighs were plumper and her hair had grown pale and brittle with drugstore dye. Her complexion was scorched gold by the sun. Her teeth were chipped and nicotine-stained. Her eyes were still full of restless blue. She still wore pink nail polish.

She was still beautiful.

“Whatcha lookin at?”

“You,” he said. “Want to get out of here?”

“And go where?”

“A hotel. We’ll make it nice and cheap.”

She gave him a coy smile. “What, and rehash old times?”

“No,” he said. “And fuck.”

She put out the cigarette. “That’s direct of you.”  
“Got someone waiting at home?”

“Yeah.” She sipped her drink. “But I don’t give a hoot.”

“I had a hamster, but it died.”

Darla burst into giggles. Her face turned pink and she leaned back into the booth with the force of it, a feminine gale that threatened to knock her over. It was the kind of laughter that had always made him want to buy roses and fight off rampaging gladiators at the same time.

“What? Waiting at home, I meant.”

“I don’t know why that’s so darn funny,” she said. “I just can’t imagine you with a hamster, I guess. Didn’t you kill the fish?”

“I didn’t kill the fish. They died.”

“We’d only had em three days, Conrad.”

“They were bum fish.”

“All right. Let’s get out of here.” She waved a hand at their surroundings. “This is kinda ridiculous anyhow. I don’t want to talk no more.”

“I don’t either,” he said.

It was a short walk to the motel on the street corner. It wasn’t the kind of establishment that rented rooms by the hour, it wasn’t that cheap, but the rooms were small and stained yellow with smoke and the floors were covered in brown shag carpeting. There were nubbly cream-colored bedspreads and orange shades on the bedside lamps. They burst through the door, awkward and stumbling. He picked her up and pressed her against the wall. She held onto his head, fingers strong in his fading hair. Her tongue was sweet. It filled his mouth like a tide, a threat and a promise. She stole his breath.

They moved to the bed. Their mouths met, breaking apart again, the air rent with the sound of panting, of buttons slipping through holes and zippers sliding open, the rustle of fabric. She kissed his neck and reached down and wrapped her iron fingers around the thickness of his cock. She squeezed. His breath hitched. She did this thing with her fingertips, a kind of slow drag in a spiral up around the head, and his forearms shook and he gritted his teeth against the deep answering throb in his groin. He felt slicked all over with sweat. She pushed the tight circle of her fingers down the length of him. He groaned.

“Mmmmm…y’always did have a nice throbber.”

He turned crimson. She giggled and bit his earlobe.

He sunk into her. She put her legs around his waist. The slick skin tightened on him all the way down.

_Good Christ, now _that’s_ a caress from the past_.

He worked up a good rhythm. She whispered that she wanted to be on top. They rolled over and she rode him and he cupped his hands around her breasts, felt her motion jiggle through her soft flesh. Her nipples were like bullets. She leaned her head back and flexed her hips, her mouth softening and starting to tremble a little, her eyes closed. She looked withdrawn into her own world. She looked lost. Her brow furrowed and her mouth fell open and he felt her insides loosen, everything going soft and still just before the tightening. The sight of her surrender was enough. He clenched her thighs and everything blanched out in a burst of pleasure.

She climbed off him. For a moment they lay side by side, struggling to regain their breath.

She fetched a sigh.

“I gotta go home.” She sat up. “I got this English boyfriend, and you know what he says to me? He says ‘I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.’ So I gotta fly.” She gathered up her clothes. “But hey. It’s been real.”

“Are you still in the trailer?”

“Nah, I quit that thing two years ago. We got a darling little apartment out near the Henderson town line.” She pulled on her jeans. “I know you was always ashamed of me. It used to piss me off but now it just makes me sad.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She did it soft. Her freckled breasts hung down in their lacy white cups. “Bye, Conrad.”

And just like that she had her purse. She walked out the door, cool as a cucumber, no parting glance over her shoulder. He lay in bed with the blankets around his waist while the night air rushed in and displaced her presence and settled into the silence of the room.

Her discarded cigarette pack lay on the floor. Ecklie got out of bed and picked them up. He turned the pack over in his hands. He shook one out. He inspected it, then ran it under his nose the way he’d seen her do. It smelled sweet as a summer meadow. After a moment’s contemplation he tucked it in his mouth and lit it up with the complimentary book of matches. The matches sat inside a complimentary tin ashtray, which sat on top of the dresser. He avoided eye contact with his reflection. He had never smoked in his life. He drew a bit of smoke into his mouth and it was harsh, it bit into his tongue and tasted like dead dogshit, but he held it there and savored his distaste. His eyes watered. He bore those pestiferous fumes and let them burn through his nostrils, as though this one action could close the gap between the years.

 

 

_“As we walked from the church, side by side.  
The next scene was a crowded courtroom,  
And like strangers we sat side by side.  
Then I heard the judge make his decision,  
And no longer were we man and wife.”_

_-Patsy Cline_


End file.
